The morning sun beat down on the canvas roof of the command tent, creating a stifling heat that smelled of dry grass and old leather. Outside, the rhythmic shouting of the soldiers drilling filled the air.
"One… two… three!"
Inside, the atmosphere was just as intense. Derek stood at the head of a large table, a map of the northern territories spread out before him. The generals—Rogers, Amadeus, and a few others—were gathered around, their faces grim.
"We leave on the seventh day," Derek announced, his finger tracing the blue line of the River Swift on the map. "The barges will be ready by then. But I will be going home tomorrow."
General Rogers frowned, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. He looked at the other generals standing at the large table, then back at Derek.
